I'm Game If You Are (and other tales)
by raspberryseedz
Summary: A collection of one-shots, mostly Starla and Grunkle4Grandpa themed but otherwise unconnected. Cross-posted originally from tumblr.
1. I'm Game if You Are

**I'm Game if You Are**

It was something of a chicken-or-the-egg scenario. Who corrupted whom first? Who was rubbing off on the other? Which was the bad influence and which was being influenced?

The answer changed depending on which person you asked.

Stan would swear up and down it was Carla. When they met he was an acne-ridden teenager that hung around his twin brother most of the time reading comic books and learning magic tricks by mail. Then she started asking him to parties and teaching him to dance, and before he knew it she's seducing him with the jitterbug and rock-and-roll.

At this point Carla would punch him in the arm and insist he got it backwards. When they met she was a naïve little girl that made her own dresses and studied ballet and was never, ever out past curfew. Then he showed her how to uppercut and took her on adrenaline-fueled monster hunts through the woods at all hours and shared dirty jokes and an aggressive distrust of authority. Really, she should've just kissed her innocence good-bye the day he punched out that mugger for her.

If they'd ever been honest, the truth of it had less to do with one corrupting the other and more to do with a phrase.

When they started going steady they were both fifteen and nervous. Everything was new territory and the absolute last thing either of them wanted was to appear uncertain, or worse, dull. And so whenever someone suggested something to the other that was new or pushed a boundary, the other usually responded with "I'm game if you are."

"Dance with me?"

"I'm game if you are."

"We're riding out to follow those weird tracks if you wanna come?"

"Sure, I'm game."

Neither of them remembered who or what started it. It didn't matter much at the time. They had no idea what they would unleash with five words and the desire to impress.

"Alice, don't think you've met Alice yet, anyway, she's having everybody over for a bonfire on the beach if you wanted to go with me?"

"I'm game if you are."

"I'm okay with staying another hour if you are."

"I ain't going anywhere. I'm game if you are."

"I'm game if you are," was their magic words. It put everything on the table. They both had imaginations broad enough and varied enough to constantly out do the other person. And somewhere along the line they learned how to be confident about it. Or perhaps it was merely recklessness, but really, who could tell the difference?

"I wonder if it would hurt if you jumped into the water this high up?"

"After you, baby. I'm game."

"I don't know… we'd have to sneak out of the house for that…"

"Well, Daddy-O, I'm game if you are."

"You wanna blow off homework and see a movie, honey?"

"Yeah, I'm game. Consider it blown."

"Between the two of us, I think we can walk out of here with at least five-six tangerines."

"Why sell yourself short, McCorkle, we could manage ten."

"You think this apple juice smells expired?"

"I'll drink it if you will."

"I'm game if you are," got them into swing dancing and horror movies. It got Stan to try out for football and Carla to apply to the dance conservatory. Once it got them so lost they walked nearly all night just to find a highway. The phrase got them into detention and later into the back of police cars. It got them into at least one car accident and more than one black eye and too many awkward dinner conversations to count. Eventually the phrase got them all the way around the bases.

It got them engaged one night in October when Carla yelled, "I'm game if you are," down from her bedroom window. And in July, when their son was born, it gave them a little extra reassurance that this was a challenge they weren't gonna back away from.

The phrase sometimes worked on domestic things, on remodeling and housework and cooking. It got them to drive out to their parents for the holidays even after they both secretly knew they'd really rather not. And it got them to hide out in New York one year even though they technically couldn't afford it.

It let them take risks. And the downside to taking risks is they aren't always going to pay off.

For after every spectacular failure, after Columbia, after the fights, even after the boyfriend, it never fully sunk in for Stanley that this era of their lives was truly over. Not until he faced her in the police station after being charged with grand theft auto and destruction of property, among other things, and pleaded with her, "We can still work this out. I'm game if you are."

And Carla silently shook her head.


	2. Carla Pushed the Door Open

_Carla pushed the door open_

Carla pushed the door open, a full bag of groceries balanced on her hip and her keys dangling from one finger. "Lee, could I get a hand, here?" she called out into the apartment. No one answered, but a visible trail of Tinker toy pieces and little plastic troll dolls lead her to the couch.

He was sitting on the floor, back against the furniture, his head tipped forward a little, snoring. Their three-year-old son was curled up in his lap, a sack of adorable dead weight topped with a curly mop of hair that left little spots of drool on his shirt as he slept.

She carefully set down her bag, navigating around stuffed animals and half-built Tinker-towers and the Fischer-Price Chatter telephone that Stanley keeps swearing he's gonna take a sledgehammer to if it trips him _one more time_. It's become almost a daily occurrence. Like brushing your teeth, or thinking about making the bed.

Stanley had fallen asleep with his glasses on again and Carla carefully slid them off, folding them closed in her palm. She fluffed up one of the couch pillows, an overly knitted and fringed thing that her mother sent for Christmas, and wedged it between Lee and the couch, delicately leaning his head back so he isn't sleeping hunched over anymore. She smoothed back her son's hair, her fingers meeting something dark green and sticky tangled up in the mass of curls. Carla frowned and extracted her hand.

Their kitchen was a small little alcove directly to the left of the couch, just big enough to fit an oven, a tiny refrigerator, a sink, and a four-chair table set. She looked up and instantly fell back at the disaster that had befallen the five-foot square space.

The blender was turned over with some unrecognizable dark, almost black, green gunk flowing out the pitcher and onto the counter. A large splatter of matching green decorated the wall behind it. The sink was filled with green-coated dishes, and the remaining dishware that didn't fit in the little sink was stacked on the table. Flour coated everything like snow dust and there was a subtle crunch under her shoes when Carla tried to walk through the mess.

Oh, there was no earthly way she was dealing with this today.

Carla put all the perishables she'd brought home, the eggs and the milk and the lettuce, into the fridge and left the rest on the counter sitting in green ooze. She dusted off her hands on her pant leg and returned to her dozing husband and son.

She was a little less careful this time about approaching them, tossing her shoes and knocking the rolling telephone back with her heel as she sat down next to Stanley. He didn't stir until she lifted his arm, wrapping it around her middle so she could position herself against his side. She tucked her forehead against the crook of his neck and closed her eyes.

"Welcome to naptime, gorgeous," Stanley murmured, his voice a little raspy and layered with sleep.

"Don't mind if I do," she sighed. She could feel them both breathing a steady rhythm and waited until she'd relaxed far enough into it that her own breathing synced up. "I'm not touching that mess in the kitchen, by the way," she told him calmly.

Lee leaned forward just a little, squinting without the aid of his glasses. "Isn't it always like that?" he asked.

"Ask me that again when you have your glasses back on."

"We were trying to do something with the spinach," he explained. "Make it edible."

"Lee, honey, I don't care what you were doing," she yawned. "So long as I don't have to clean it up."

"No sweat, baby." His hand left her waist to lightly drag through her hair.

Carla started to doze off. When you got down to brass tacks, they really were just two big kids trying to take care of a small one. At times they managed to be more or less responsible. There were times when she got the checkbook to balance out correctly, and Lee remembered to pick up that thing she really needed, and times when they had a meal with some kind of vegetable in it. Times when you could walk through their son's room without tripping, and times when his hair didn't smell like food. Most of the time though, it was busy workdays and lazy weekends and chaos with spinach dripping from the walls. And maybe their kitchen would smell for a while, and maybe she had to look where she stepped all the time, but she was not about to lose any sleep over it.

This was her family, and they suited her just fine.


	3. Selkie

Selkie

"Frampton and Sharkstier Insurance, this is Carla. How may I help you?"

"Mom, where's the inflatable kiddie pool?"

"Inflatable kiddie pool?" Carla's practiced, polite professional voice dropped the instance she realized her son had called her at work again. "What on earth do you need that for?"

"No reason. For charity. And science. A school science project for charity." the boy rambled.

"No lying, JR," she said sternly.

"I just need it, Mom. For a friend."

"A friend, huh?"

"Yeah, he's uh-new kid. Very new."

Carla pushed her bangs out of her face, rubbing the stress lines out of her forehead with the heel of her palm. "JR, would you put Karen on the phone," she sighed.

"Karen's kinda busy," JR said candidly. He sounded almost pleased with himself, which usually amounted to bad news for his beleaguered babysitter. Last time it was a wad of gum that found it's way into the teenage girl's hair.

A large crash sounded through the phone and Carla's ears perked.

"What was that?"

"What was what?"

"That noise. I heard a crash."

"That's nothing. I meant that's the TV."

"JR, what is going on?" Carla put on her best you-better-tell-me-or-you're-in-big-trouble-mister voice.

Another crash. This time she could vaguely hear Karen yelling something in the background.

"Sorry-Mom-I-gotta-go-good-luck-at-work-don't-come-home-early-we're-all-good-here-BYE!"

The phone clicked and the line went dead.

Carla dropped the phone back in it's cradle and craned her head to look at the clock at the other end of the office. Three fifty-two. She still had over an hour left.

She leaned out of her chair until she could just barely peak around her cubicle. The door to the boss's office was shut and the blinds were drawn. Carla bit her lip. If she left now and came straight back he might not notice.

Carla scrambled for her purse and her keys. She left her cardigan hanging on the back of her chair so it'd look like she just stepped out if anyone did happen to pass by. When she turned to leave she nearly ran smack into a blue tie and suit.

"Checking out early, Pines?" the deep voice of Mr. Faroe rumbled from above the knot of the tie.

"It's just- my son- I can come right back…" Carla began.

Mr. Faroe raised a hand and nodded. "Say no more," he whispered. "I'll cover for you with the shark," he glanced at the shut office door.

"Thank you so much," she whispered back.

He moved to let her pass, and she rushed out the office and down the stairs like lightning.

0I0I0I

When Carla pulled up to her apartment complex her hair had come out of it's bun and streamed behind her in a wild, frizzy mess. She left her purse on the passenger seat and had to double back to lock the car after she'd momentarily forgotten. There was probably nothing dangerously wrong, she tried to remind herself. Karen would've called her much earlier if it was. It was more likely she'd have to save Karen from whatever mess her son had concocted this time. Hopefully this wouldn't be the last straw for Karen. Carla really didn't have that many babysitter choices.

The steps leading up to her apartment each had a small puddle of water, as did the hallway, and Carla stepped around them with an air of bewilderment until reaching the door. She threw it open and stumbled into the apartment.

"JR!" she yelled into the room. Both he and the babysitter were nowhere to be found but the trail of puddles continued through the room to the back of the apartment space where the bedrooms and bathroom were located. "JAY-ARE, come out here this insta-" Carla stopped mid-yell as she reached the end of the water trail.

"Holy crab apples," she muttered, falling back against the bathroom door.

Squished into the tiny bathroom was her son, drenched from head to toe, sitting at the foot of the tub with a stack of Hostess products in his lap, Karen with her wet blonde hair sticking in strings to her back trying to dry the floor with a towel, and flopped into the bathtub itself was a brown spotted seal, it's tail hitting against the faucet and it's nose repeatedly nudging JR's shoulder.

"Hi, Mom."

"Hello, Mrs. Pines," Karen and JR said in sheepish unison. The seal barked.

"There's a seal in the bathtub," Carla said, pointing at the animal in question.

"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Pines," Karen began. "We were at the beach and I only turned my back for a second-"

"Why is there _a seal_ in the _bathtub?_ " Carla interrupted.

"Because I couldn't find the kiddie pool," JR interjected, as if it were obvious.

"But why? How? How'd you get it up the stairs?" she raised a hand to her forehead, her voiced raised high in shock.

"He had my red wagon, he was already home when I found him. I'm so sorry," Karen wrung her hands.

"What is it _chewing?_ " Carla asked in mild horror. The seal's tongue flicked out and licked it's lips as if in response.

"Twinkies. He loves 'em," JR said cheerfully. "Watch this." He unwrapped one of the Twinkies, holding it in the air above the seal's head and slowly brought it down until the little marshmallow-filled treat rested on the animal's muzzle. "Aaaaaaand, go!" JR shouted.

As soon as he did, the seal launched the Twinkie into the air with his nose. His mouth flashed open and he snapped up the Twinkie, gobbling it up with his whiskers lifted in an approximation of a satisfied grin.

"Aw, that's adorable," Carla cooed, a smile breaking over her face as she felt the anxiety in her pop like a bubble. "You're in so much trouble, young man," she said without pause.

0I0I0I

She told Karen to dry off and head home. She'd take it from here. The girl just gave her a wide-eyed grateful look and nodded. She'd have to remember to talk to JR about behaving better with her.

JR talked her out of calling animal services, rambling on about how they'd put him in a zoo or an aquarium or worse and he'd be absolutely miserable. Partly to placate her son and partly because she didn't really want to explain to any authority figure why she had a live seal in her apartment, Carla dispensed with making the call and dug the inflatable kiddie pool out of the closet.

She pushed the couch back and set the little wading pool in it's place a few feet in front of the TV and filled it halfway with water. As for getting the seal itself out of the bathroom, she tried lifting the thing and all that accomplished was getting her just as soaking wet as the kids. After a lot of barking and fussing and splashing, the seal was finally removed from the tub after JR left to get more towels and the seal slid himself over the rim of the tub and wobbled across the wet hardwood after the boy.

She didn't know what seals were supposed to eat, though the damage had probably already been done with those Twinkies, so she opened up several cans of tuna, put a scoop into two sandwiches for her and JR and the rest into a bowl for the seal. The three of them watched Hawaii Five-O and ate dinner. The seal barked and clapped it's front flippers together whenever the screen switched to a commercial.

"It's like having a very wet dog," JR remarked. The seal rolled in the kiddie pool onto his back. He barely fit in the thing as it was and the movement caused a little wave to splash over the side of the plastic pool and onto the floor.

"You're gonna have a lot of water to clean up tonight, kiddo," Carla lifted her feet, shifting to sit cross-legged on the couch. "Don't leave that on the couch."

JR sighed and removed his empty glass from the arm of the couch and set it on the floor.

"We're going to have to take him back," Carla added softly. "You know that right?"

"I'm not an idiot, Mom." JR shot her a look from under his eyebrows.

"Never said you were, tough guy," she reached out and tousled his hair. He let out a small whine in complaint. "I meant that we're gonna have to think about how to get him back to the ocean. You remember where you found him?"

"Mmmhmmm," he hummed in the affirmative. "But–we don't have to take him back tonight, do we?"

"I'm not having a seal in this apartment overnight."

"But, we were having fun–and it's cold out–"

"His family's gonna miss him, JR."

The boy let out a quiet sigh, his face hung down towards the seal's flapping tail. "Yeah, I guess so," he took a bite out of his sandwich and chewed it slowly.

0I0I0I

When night fell Carla collected her keys and her jacket and instructed JR to go and change into something warm. She wrung out all their towels, hanging a few on the shower rod over the tub and setting a few aside to help transport the seal.

"Alright, so how did you get him up here?" she asked.

"The wagon, Mom. Watch." JR shrugged into his jacket and wheeled Karen's wagon out of his room. He parked it beside the inflatable pool and tipped the wagon onto it's side. "Okay, Mr. Seal, roll over. Roll over." he rotated one hand in front of the other, showing him what to do.

The seal twisted in response, rolling in his direction straight into the bed of the wagon. The momentum he created tipped the thing over, balancing on one set of wheels for a brief moment before righting itself in a splash of water. The seal tipped it's head back and gave a barking laugh, as if posing to end the trick with a proper flourish.

Carla stared blankly at him for a second. "Well, okay then," she said.

The two of them wheeled the wagon out into the hall, the seal covered in their wet towels. It wasn't much of a disguise, the end of his tail flipper kept poking out the back no matter how many times JR tried to cover it or tuck it back in.

The stairs presented some difficulty. The two of them had to lift the wagon, seal and all, and inch sideways down the flight without tripping or overturning anything. By the time they reached the bottom they were both out of breath and sore.

"Why couldn't a puppy have followed you home," Carla groaned, stretching out her back. "Or a very small turtle."

"Turtles are lame, Mom," JR countered.

"They live to be over a hundred. And they don't make noise. Son, let's get a turtle."

"Mooom," JR rolled his eyes.

The seal would never fit in the trunk of her car, or the backseat, and after a lot of denial along the lines of "No, I'm sure it'll work, try turning it a little," the duo decided it was best to continue on foot. Carla thanked her forethought in at least keeping a flashlight inside her car so they wouldn't have to travel completely in the dark.

They made it to the beach without incident. Most of the crowds were further down the shore towards the pier this late at night. They took turns pulling the wagon across the sidewalk and adjusting the cover on the seal. But by the time they made it to where sidewalk met sand they were properly exhausted.

"Okay, is this where you found him?" Carla asked.

"It was down by those rocks. Over there," JR pointed a stubby finger down the shore line.

"We need to go over beach boundaries again, young man," she observed.

The pair jumped as a siren squealed from the street behind them. Carla whirled around, nearly tripping over the wagon in the process. A police car was moving straight toward them, slowing down. She stepped in front of her son, her heart pounding.

"Let me handle this, sweetie," she said with a somewhat manufactured confidence. JR gripped her pant leg the way he'd often done as a toddler.

The car slowed to a stop, pulling alongside them. The window rolled down.

"This beach is closed, ma'am," the officer said in a clipped tone. He was a tall, thin man, a thick mustache sat curved under his nose like a third eyebrow. Carla loathed him immediately.

"We were just leaving," she informed him. "We only live a couple blocks away."

"What's in the wagon?" the officer asked.

"What wagon?" Carla tensed.

"The one behind you," the man's eyebrow made a slight, almost imperceptible lift.

"Oh, you mean _this_ wagon, uh–" she glanced over her shoulder. The pile of wet towels were laying shockingly flat and un-seal shaped.

"We left some of our things by the water," she said, her mind reeling in confusion. "That's why we're out here so late, we– had to go back–for the towels." Against her better judgement she lifted one, peeking into the wagon bed and marvelling at the perplexing lack of seal. Did it just vanish?

"What about the kid that ran off?" the officer nodded toward the rocks at the other end of the beach.

"What kid?" Carla looked around. No one was there but JR, standing behind her where he was supposed to, staring at the wagon with giant, bewildered eyes.

Carla took a deep breath and knelt down by her son, grabbing him by the shoulders. "You ran off? What were you thinking? At this time of night!"

"But Mom, I–" he started, looking even more confused.

"You could've gotten lost or swept out to sea or worse," she clutched his head to her shoulder and made a show of stroking his hair. "Don't you ever run off from your poor mother again, do you understand?"

"Uh– No, I thought–" the officer began, "I thought I saw another kid. A bigger kid."

"You're seeing things, officer dude," JR mumbled.

"Don't be silly, honey, officer dude isn't seeing things," Carla insisted.

"You're telling me you only have one kid, lady?" the officer clarified.

"Just this little guy," Carla hugged her son around the waist, one hand keeping his forehead fixed to her collarbone.

"Hmmm." Officer Dude glanced from Carla to JR to the shoreline. "Well, make sure you get home safe."

"Will do, officer, will do."

"Do you need an escort?"

"No, no, we're fine, we're not far from home."

"Alright," he nodded, tipping his hat at her, "Good evening, then." The window rolled back up and the car inched away from the curb.

"Mom, where's the seal?" JR whispered.

"I don't know, sweetie, just keep still," she whispered back, holding him close. Her eyes followed the car as it slowly moved down the street.

"But we need to find him," JR protested.

"Not yet, JR, wait just a second."

"But, Mom," he started to squirm.

"Not yet–" The black-and-white car started to pick up speed, finally vanishing to a mere dot along the horizon.

"Okay, now," Carla released her son and they both tore down the white sandbank, leaving the seal-less wagon on the sidewalk behind them.

The beach was indeed completely empty. Cold wind cut through their clothes and tore at Carla's hair and kicked up the sand around them as they ran. They made it all way to the rocks without encountering anything or anyone. She kept a hand on her son's shoulder and leaned against the rock formation, water lapped at their ankles.

Suddenly she saw it. A dark little shape a few feet out, diving through the waves. She gasped. "There his is! I see him!"

"Where? I can't see," JR gave a grunt as his mother picked him up around the waist like she'd done a thousand times over when he small. She pushed him up until he got a good footing on the rocks to where he could stand on his own. She kept a hand on his tennis shoes.

"Look out there," she pointed. JR followed her fingers across the waves.

"Are you sure that's him?"

"I'm positive."

"But how'd he get all the way out here without us knowing?"

"I don't know, honey," she frowned. The dark spot jumped, diving into the water and coming back up again, almost too small to be noticed now. "You should wave goodbye," she told her son.

JR shot her a look. He probably thought she was being pandering. He was growing up too fast. But he did lift his hand and wave at the vanishing dot in the distance all the same.

* * *

True story: This actually happened to my sister's mother-in-law. Kind of. When my sister's husband was little he and his step-dad went to the beach and this seal followed them practically to their truck (so he says) and so naturally (so he says) they took it home and let it play in their pool. His mother walked in and flipped out and made them take the poor seal back before somebody called the cops. It's one of those awkward the-hell-were-you-thinking? stories that gets passed around on Thanksgiving. I'm pretty sure the seal was not actually a selkie.


	4. Rubbing Alcohol

**Rubbing Alcohol**

"You ever hear of iodine?" Carla scrunched up her nose, wincing at the injury. She had the unraveled remains of Stan's makeshift bandage in one hand and held his wrist in the other. The injury in question was a long cut running across the back of his right hand. It wasn't bleeding, hadn't been for over a week according to him, but the edges were red and puffy and signs of puss forming under a thin layer of struggling skin wasn't at all reassuring. "Or maybe hydrogen peroxide?" she added.

"You're starting to sound like Stanford," he grumbled.

"This looks _infected_ , Lee. I'm considering dragging your ass to a doctor right now."

"That shouldn't be difficult. Finding a quack doctor in the middle of an apocalypse with nothing better to do than look at a little cut."

She released his wrist, letting his hand drop to the table. "I don't have to help you, ya know."

Stanley slouched in his chair, his shoulders bunching around his neck and a his mouth drawn into a tight pout. He raised his hand to stare down his nose at it, considering the little cut. It was kind of gross.

Carla sighed and rose from the table. Stanford had a first aid kit stashed alongside the ration boxes. He was bound to have some kind of disinfectant. Though you never could tell with Stanford. One night they'd gotten trapped in the Jersey Pine Barrens with two dozen batteries and only one flashlight.

The first aid kit was a little metal box covered in dust, the cross label on the top was faded and peeling. She couldn't make out the fine print at the bottom, though hopefully that was more the age of the label and not her prescription glasses acting up on her. When she opened it the little hinges creaked in protest. The thing was completely full, all the bandages and plastic bottles looked untouched. She sat back down on the lumpy mattress she'd been using as a chair and started unpacking.

At the top was a cold compress and an emergency blanket folded up into a little square the size of her palm. Under that was a box of assorted band-aids, large pads, a roll of gauze, a set of tweezers, a little tube of Neosporin, a roll of thick, textured surgical tape, several packets of iodine pads, a tiny pair of scissors, a small bottle of rubbing alcohol, and four packets of Pez dispenser candies.

Carla lifted an eyebrow at the candy. Stanley just shrugged.

"He doesn't have any towels around here, does he?" Carla asked, scanning the area. They had been hiding out nearly a day and the only kitchen utensils she'd found consisted of a can opener and a vast assortment of knives. The latter technically weren't meant for cooking. The mattress she was sitting on was completely bare, she doubted they'd have better luck in the linen department.

"Why don't you go ask him?"

"Yeah, you're not getting out of this that easily," she smirked. She pulled her knees under her, sitting up on the mattress until she was eye level with him and cleared a spot on the little metal table. She twisted the cap off the bottle of rubbing alcohol and reached again for Stanley's wrist. "I don't think a little alcohol is gonna hurt the table any." She tipped the bottle over his hand.

" _Jeezus!_ " Stan jumped halfway out of his seat when the liquid hit him. His knees crashed against the bottom of the flimsy table and the contents of the first aid kit rattled and fell to the ground. Carla held fast to his wrist.

"Quiet, the kids are sleeping," she whispered.

"The kids aren't _sleeping,_ " Stan hissed, his eyes scrunching shut and his fingers curling in pain. "They've been behind that door for the past five minutes– _God bless it, that smarts!_ " He bit down on his tongue to prevent anything more crass from escaping.

Carla glanced at the rounded, convex tunnel door that led to the rest of the bunker. It was open just a crack and even in the dark she could make out a few moving shapes in the little crescent sliver of space between the metal door and the wall.

Someone whispered, "I think he's talking about us, dude," followed by a high-pitched shushing noise.

"Go to bed, kids," Carla said in her best authoritative mom voice. "There's nothing to see here." The metal door pulled closed with an eerie creak. She couldn't make out the smattering of whispers that followed.

"You could've warned me you were gonna do that," Stanley complained.

"If I had, you wouldn't have let me do it," she countered matter-of-factly. "Can you reach the box?"

He leaned out of his chair while Carla held his injured, and now dripping wet, hand in both of hers. The rubbing alcohol started to bubble a little, she couldn't remember if that meant anything good or bad. She dusted off the little puddle that formed on the table to make room for the box of supplies.

Stan pushed the first aid kit in her direction and she dug through the mess until she found the tube of Neosporin. "This isn't gonna hurt as much, I promise," she said, squeezing out a bead of the stuff onto her finger.

" _As much?_ "

"Don't be a baby, Lee. Relax your hand."

"I am."

She shook his wrist. His fingers had curled up into a tight fist, knuckles pale in contrast with the flaming red skin around his cut. She moved to put some of the disinfectant cream on his hand and he flinched before she'd even got close.

"Stanley, please. I can't fix this if you're gonna fight me on it."

The look he gave her was a mix of defiance and bewilderment.

Carla had mended enough cuts in her day to know when it was time to change tactics. "You really need to talk to Dipper," she said, softly in case the others were still hanging around. She rotated her free hand under his fist, her fingers cradling the thick part of his wrist. His hand covered hers completely, weighing it down.

"I've tried talking to Dipper," Stanley replied, frowning at her but making no moves to stop what she was doing. "He doesn't want to talk to me. He's too stubborn."

"Keep trying," she offered. Her thumb rotated over his wrist, the thin skin still cold from sitting on the metal table, and down to the thick, fleshy part of his palm. "He'll come around. He's waiting to see if you'll give up on him."

"What?"

"He's waiting to see if you'll stop trying," she glanced up at him over the rims of her glasses. He was staring at her, not paying the slightest attention to what her hands were doing. She curled her fingers under his wrist and along his palm, slowly teasing his fingers loose.

"That's not very fair," he said.

"Neither is lying about being somebody's uncle," she replied.

"I'm never gonna hear the end of that am I," he chuckled lamely. His laugh fell just as soon as it started, his eyes grew sad and he looked down.

She had all four of his fingers resting gently in her palm, at least as much as could fit in her small hand. Her thumb dragged over his knuckles in an uneven wave, careful to avoid the damaged part of his hand, and circled back around and around in a lazy, warm little rhythm.

"What am I supposed to say?" he asked.

"Did you try 'I'm sorry'?"

"Yes," he paused. "In a way."

"Try it more directly next time," Carla suggested. She traced a heavy crease down to his thumb. His fingers were thicker and hadn't wrinkled as much as her own bony ones. She could see several dark spots forming on his skin and feel a few rough callouses at the base of his fingers. Foreign and yet also familiar. Intimate and somehow strange at the same time.

His hand was almost completely limp in hers when she finally spread the Neosporin over the cut. He didn't react to it at all.

"See, that wasn't so bad," she released him. Carla allowed herself a small smile, feeling proud of herself despite the stuffy atmosphere that purveyed the room. It was a wonder they all hadn't choked on the stale air and 30 year-old dust that clouded the bunker.

She reached for the roll of gauze, unraveling a long piece. Stanley clasped and unclasped his fingers a few times, almost entranced with the action, finally settling on leaving it flat on the table. She clipped off the gauze with the tiny pair of scissors and had him hold onto a few pieces of the surgical tape with his good hand. "We're almost done," she informed him. "Just hold out your hand, like this," she showed him, bending at the elbow and relaxing her wrist.

He complied. She pulled the length of gauze around his palm, winding it. Almost done.

"Carla," Stanley paused.

"Too tight?" she asked, slowing down.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, staring, not at her, but at the white fabric she'd pulled taught over his hand. "For– y'know, everything."

"Yeah?" she stopped, swallowing down the little lump festering in her throat. The dust was stifling. "Not _every_ thing, though, I hope."

His eyebrows lifted.

"I mean not everything was bad," she explained, busying herself once more. She held the finished wrapping closed, taping the ends. "No need to apologize for _everything_."

"Are you knocking my apology?" he leaned forward, no longer slouching. "I'm offended."

She half-laughed, half-snorted in response. "Sorry, I forgot you're new at this."

"Damn right."

Carla felt a flood of laughter bubble up, uncontrolled. "For godssake, Stanley," she shook her head between giggles, more bemused than anything. Her laughter was infectious and he caught it, the table soon vibrated with the noise. Carla leaned her forehead against her free hand, shielding herself a little from the embarrassment of the whole thing. On the table she still clasped his hand in her free one, lightly squeezing his fingers as he laughed with her.

0I0I0I

"What are they saying? Did they kiss already? I can't hear," Mabel hissed, her ear pressed firmly against the metallic door. "Soos, I need subtitles."

"I lost track after they started talking about chicken pox," Soos whispered back. "Or was it 'feathered locks'?" he scratched at his chin.

"Arrg!" Mabel threw up her hands, stomping down the dark corridor back to the lab to find her, most likely still sulking, brother. "They are _hopeless!_ "


	5. The Robb'd That Smiles

_The Robb'd That Smiles_

"You're always so down, man," Carla laughed, light and teasing. "You know I don't think I've ever once seen you smile."

"He only smiles when the planets align just so," Stanley told her. His arms were stretched out across the backseat, one draped over her slim shoulders, jacket partially covering her. She didn't have to go far in order to elbow him sharp in the ribs.

Stanford tapped the accelerator, shooting his car around a lagging Oldsmobile and back into the lane. "People who smile are either ignorant or selling something," he replied. His brother groaned. Stanford didn't have to look through the rear-view mirror to know he was rolling his eyes.

"The robb'd that smiles, steals something from the thief," Carla quoted, enunciating every word in an almost musical tone. "He robs himself that spends a bootless grief," she finished defiantly, her eyes half-lidded and smug.

Stanley snorted. "Did you just tell my brother off _with Shakespeare?_ " he asked in earnest.

"Othello, I believe. Eh, Stanford?" she kicked the back of his seat, just hard enough to feel.

"I don't even know what that means, but _holy crap, I love you,_ " Stanley laughed.

"Shakespeare was selling something," Stanford muttered his objection. He dared a glance at the backseat. His comment had gone completely unheard, as he suspected, in favor of gratuitous goo-goo eyes.

Carla had captured his brother's face in both hands, her nose wrinkled playfully at him and her teeth dragged slowly over her lower lip in anticipation. Stanley grinned like an idiot and his eyes shut. They leaned into each other. Stanford turned his gaze on the road. It did nothing to quell his awareness of the two teenagers messily necking in the back of his car.

Stanford tightened his grip on the steering wheel. Trees flicked through his peripheral vision in rapid succession, breaking up only when they passed another house. He approached the next intersection, sailing through, speed steadily increasing. Someone made a decidedly suggestive sigh behind him. Three more blocks was too far to go. He accelerated towards the next stop sign, watching the little marker on his speedometer rise. Then his foot dropped on the brake pedal like a brick.

The tires screamed across the pavement. He could almost smell the rubber. The car swayed violently, just shy of the white painted line marking the intersection.

"Watch it!" Stanley snapped. He glared daggers through the rear-view mirror. Carla's dark eyes were dilated and wide. She had one arm hooked around Stanley's neck and the other braced on the seat like she'd fallen back and dragged her boyfriend with her, though whether that was from the sudden stop or the progress of the make out session Stanford couldn't tell.

"Almost missed the stop," he gave a lame shrug.

Carla put a bold hand against Stanley's chest and eased him up, righting themselves in the backseat like nothing happened. The look she gave him through the mirror was odd. Tight but not angry. Disappointed, more like.

Stanford eased the car back into motion. They rolled down the blank street in silence. Carla repositioned herself in the crook of Stanley's arm, running her hand down the back of his neck and _good god_ , had they lost _all concept_ of personal space? He bit his tongue.

"What's with all the cars?" Stanley asked. They'd turned the corner to find the entire street leading up to the McCorkle residence lined with various vehicles.

"My sister's graduating tomorrow. All our weird, obscure relatives are crashing here this wseekend. I told you about twenty times already, thick-head," she flicked his temple.

"I didn't know you had a sister," Stanley replied, coy grin stretched across his face.

"It's no fun if you start asking to be slapped, baby," Carla patted his hand. "You guys should come in and say hi, if you have the time."

"Absolutely."

"Absolutely not," both brothers spoke in near unison.

"C'mon, nerd, we can take two minutes," Stanley insisted.

Stanford started counting down on each finger, "You and I both know it would _not_ be two minutes. You and I both know Mom's gonna start wondering where we are. And you and I both know who's gonna end up having to placate her curiosity with another bold faced lie."

"You're a real peach, brother." Stanley reached up and clapped him on the shoulder. He pushed open the car door to let himself out.

"Ya know, Stanford," Carla shifted forward and all of a sudden Stanford was assaulted with a torrent of thick dark hair that brushed and fell over his arm as she leaned over the back of his seat, practically talking into his ear. "My sister's got a bunch of her senior friends over. Real mature, academic types. Some of 'em are really cute."

Stanford automatically turned without considering the consequences. Carla was now inches from his nose, her hair blocking his vision of anything but her bright eyes and the quirky, mischievous smile on her face. He held his breath in terror. Too much and too close, altogether too close. He was paralyzed, trapped between a metal door and a curtain of hair.

He must've done a satisfactory job of looking disgusted because after a brief moment she shrugged and backed away, allowing him to breathe. "Just a thought," she explained coolly.

She followed Stanley out of the car and up the stone walkway, practically skipping, her long hair bouncing. He didn't hear what they said to each other but Carla burst into laughter, the peals in her voice strong enough to penetrate his car and echo through the little space.

He waited until they disappeared inside her house and did the only thing his intellectual prowess equipped him to do: repeatedly hit his head against the steering wheel in bootless grief.


End file.
